The Honeypot Affair
by the-ryter121
Summary: In which Illya has some reservations about the mission they're on, and Gaby is tired of Illya's bullshit.


There was something utterly infuriating in the way that Illya stared when he thought she wasn't looking. His blue eyes, ringed in heavy blond lashes never once wavered from her form, and she could feel the intensity of his gaze like heat on her face, even from across the bar. It made her want to punch him in his perfect mouth. She and Illya were meant to be running an op together, while Napoleon was off traipsing around in the French Riviera on his own mission, the lucky bastard. She was closing in on the mark, a thirty-something English womanizer, Thomas Hall, with ties to an underground smuggling ring, responsible for a lot of weapons getting into the wrong hands. The mission was simple enough, seduce him, bring him back to her hotel room, and let Illya get the man talking. At least, it had sounded easy when the mission had been given to her. Illya hadn't been too thrilled at the time, and his mood had only darkened as they came closer and closer to making contact.

And now, here she sat in a white dress, hemline inching above her knee, a drink in one hand, and what she hoped was a slightly forlorn expression on her face. It was a bit hard to concentrate on maintaining her cover when holes were being drilled into the back of her head by a six and a half foot Russian man. A voice broke her reverie.

"He is on approach." Growled Illya through the tiny speaker in her ear. It was the latest in U.N.C.L.E. technology, wired to a larger receiver which was hidden underneath the clothing. The box was taped under her breasts, the only place in the dress with enough give. She just had to hope the mark wasn't going to get too handsy. She put her glass down on the bar top and tapped it once with her finger, in acknowledgement. Just a few heartbeats later a man sidled up to the bar next to her, slightly invading her space in a calculated way.

"My dear, you look far too lovely to be drinking alone."

Illya watched from the other side of the room as the objective of their mission laughed and flirted with Gaby, his hand resting in a familiar way on her slender waist. He could feel his own hands balling up into fists. Before he could stop himself, he was growling into the radio transmitter, hidden in the cuff on his sleeve.

"Perhaps you should play hard to get." Her face showed no sign of her recognition or change, but her fingers tapped deliberately, twice, on her glass. No. He was being irrational, he knew that, but there was something about having Gaby play the bait that set his teeth on edge. For the sake of the mission, he reminded himself. For the sake of the mission he had covertly steered men away from Gaby all night until Thomas had showed up, and each had worn on his nerves. "Бабник." He muttered to himself.

Gaby allowed the tenor of the relative stranger's voice to wash over her. He certainly liked to hear himself talk. He was expounding on a polo match which he had apparently won single-handedly, and was absentmindedly rubbing circles on one of her wrists. Really, there wasn't much seducing going on, on her end of things. She simply had to sit back with an attentive expression and let him do all the work.

"How long will this take, in your estimation?" Illya grumbled into her ear. She drummed her fingers along the top of the bar in answer. Leaving soon. "Good," came the reply, "I was thinking that I might fall asleep before he had come to the end of this sentence." She hid the small smile that stole onto her face behind a sip of her martini. As soon as her suitor paused for breath she broke in, inviting him back to her hotel room for a cup of coffee. "I will go ahead to the hotel room, to wait for our guest." She felt the weight of his eyes lift off of her face as he presumably slipped out of the back of the bar without notice, and headed forward to the rendezvous point. Which left her with Thomas, a wolfish smile on his face for what he considered a job well done, and a hand indecorously low on her back as he guided her out of the room. They entered the cool night air of London, and Thomas walked blithely on as she shivered in what was no longer appropriate wear for the chilly evening.

"My hotel is just up this street, towards the Thames" she motioned to a small alley, her arms crossed against her chest to ward off the chill.

"Oh! You must be staying at the Savoy. You have excellent taste my dear. But I was thinking that I might like just a taste before we reach your room." He rather skillfully maneuvered her against the wall of the building they had been walking past, trapping her in with his arms. He was quite a few inches taller than her, and a solid build. He was handsome too, with hazel eyes and dark hair, but a bit too pushy for her tastes.

"Wouldn't you rather get out of the cold?" she offered, but he cut her off with a kiss, crushing his lips against hers. After a few moments, he broke away, his breathing a bit more labored than the situation perhaps warranted.

"I think that I can find another way to warm you up." He crooned in a way that he surely thought would make her melt. She managed a smoldering smile before his lips were on hers again. He was pushy in his kiss as well, his tongue over-eager and his hands already wandering across her thighs and breasts. Her breath hitched in her throat when his fingers brushed against the receiver beneath her dress. He broke off the kiss. "What was that?" he asked, his voice tight and vaguely suspicious.

"It's part of my brassiere," she cooed, batting her long eyelashes at him. "I'll show you back at my hotel room." He seemed to be temporarily mollified, though he was eyeing her more warily than he had all night. Before she could even begin to say something else, a hand shot out of the darkness to strike him in the temple, and he crumpled to the ground at her feet. "Goddamn it Illya!" she growled out at the Russian man who was currently collecting her would-be wooer off of the street. "I had everything under control." He positioned the man across one shoulder in a fireman carry, hefting the weight with ease.

"He was suspicious of you after he touched your receiver, and he was overly forward." He adjusted the lump on his shoulder and held out his coat, which she hadn't noticed him removing. "Put this on, you are cold." Without another word he set off in the direction of the hotel. Gaby slipped on his coat, still warm, and rushed to catch up to his long stride.

"I was seducing him, his was meant to be overly-forward. And you were meant to meet back at the hotel room. Were you tailing us?" He ignored her, his brow creased in the frown that she most often saw on his face. "I can handle myself Illya." He turned to her, stopping so suddenly that she nearly walked past him. He stared at her, the intensity of his gaze surprising her, though he was very seldom anything but intense. His jaw worked as he considered his words, examining her like a chessboard.

"I do not doubt you, любимая. I worried that something unpredictable might happen if I was not here, and I did not wish to take the risk. Now, let us hurry before he is awake again. We only have a few minutes." He set off at a trot again, and she set off after him, his words bouncing around in her head. They reached the hotel in only a few moments, and Illya stalled outside the front, unsure as to how to proceed.

When he had knocked out Thomas, he hadn't been considering the difficulty of scaling three stories along the outside of the building with an unconscious man on his back. However, before he could react, Gaby was slipping inside the lobby doors laughing and swaying on her feet, an exaggeration since she had only had the one drink. She sauntered up to the desk of the lobby where a rather attentive young attendant was waiting. Illya couldn't hear the words exchanged, but he could tell from the flush that was settling on the cheekbones of the young man that Gaby was using her considerable charm. She leaned over the desk, pointing to something behind the attendant, and when his back was turned, she shoved a pile of papers that were resting neatly in front of her onto the floor. They hurried to clean up the mess, and Illya took his chance, rushing to the elevator with his package in tow, as quickly as he dared. He sighed with relief when the elevator doors shut on him, with no one the wiser for their entrance.

They regrouped a few hours later in her hotel room, the information from the mark already sent along to U.N.C.L.E., and Thomas only a missing a few teeth for his trouble. Gaby was still fuming, though she wasn't completely sure why. Illya hadn't really done any harm by breaking the protocol they had established. There was just something presumptuous about his actions that rubbed her the wrong way. He was currently sitting in a chair across from her, studiously not looking at her face for a change. She huffed, and then hoisted herself off of the couch to make herself a drink. Perhaps a little alcohol would soothe her ruffled feathers.

"I'm going to make you a drink, will you drink it or shall I be forced to?" She looked at him expectantly, sure of his refusal, and he seemed moments from issuing his standard "No thank you" and leaving her to drink two doubles by herself. But this time he surprised her, taking the offered vodka without saying anything, and taking a tentative sip. She was not so modest, taking the whole thing in one gulp, the familiar burn settling in her chest in a pleasant way.

"Thank you," he murmured, half inside his glass, sipping cautiously and not making eye contact. He was infuriating sometimes. Finally she interrupted the stilted silence.

"Alright, I have to ask. What was that word that you said earlier tonight? I haven't heard it before." He choked on his vodka, coughing indelicately.

"Ah, that was nothing. A slip of the tongue." She could have sworn that there was a pink flush creeping up his neck, though that was ridiculous of course. KGB agents do not blush.

"Schwachsinn. You do not have to tell me Illya, but do not lie to me." He looked abashed, but said nothing. "Fine, I'll leave you to your evening. I am going out for a drink." She stood and turned on her heel, bag snatched off the arm of the couch before he could even open his mouth in disbelief. She was halfway to the door before his large, cold, hand caught on her wrist. "What?" she hissed, "I am not content to sit in silence with you all evening." She turned to the door, but his hand stayed firm.

"Stay," he whispered, "please." She turned to him, her dark brown eyes searching his face. The kiss that they had almost shared hung in the air between them, as it had since Napoleon had interrupted them and ended it before it had begun. But there was no Napoleon waiting in the wings now to stop them. Still, he hesitated, as if waiting for something, and finally she sighed in frustration.

"Kiss me." And he did. This kiss was nothing like the one she had endured earlier in the evening. Illya kissed her slowly but not hesitantly, like his only desire was to discover and devour her, in his own time. The heat of it churned and tightened in her belly, like the writhing of molten steel. They bumped against the door behind them, and the bulk of him settled against her with a comforting weight. His hand wandered to her face cupping her cheek, and she gasped at the shock of his cold fingers against her fevered skin. He took advantage of her momentary distraction, his tongue making its way into her mouth, coaxing her own with a tenderness that made her sigh. But she was not one to sit back and be kissed. Her own hands moved to his collar, pulling him tighter against her, standing up on her tiptoes for better leverage. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and gave it a gentle nip, feeling his groan rumble through her chest at their proximity.

She didn't know how long they kissed like that, except that when he pulled away his lips were swollen, and his breath came out in short pants, his hands trembling just slightly against her skin. They both simply stood there for a long moment, letting their breaths mingle between them, his forehead resting against hers. Finally, he drew away.

"The word, любимая," she interrupted him, placing a finger on his lips.

"I think that I know," she said, "любимая," she repeated, letting it settle in her mouth like melting candy. She rather liked the taste of it on her tongue. He grinned. She kissed his smiling lips again, so that perhaps he could taste it too.

A/N: Decided to throw this one-shot together after seeing the movie yesterday afternoon. Forgive me if the characters are a little OOC, it can be hard to pin them down after only one viewing. Additionally, I apologize if any of the language is not correct. I do not speak either Russian or German, so all translations come from the internet. Feel free to correct me if I am wrong.

Бабник - womanizer/skirtchaser  
Schwachsinn - nonsense/bullshit  
любимая- beloved


End file.
